This One Destiny
by Subliminal Broessiv't
Summary: A short, first-person story written for my contemporary literature class followed immediately by a brief, free-verse poem. It's an existential piece I put together to comment on the state of reality, and it plays with the idea that a first-person narrator will have many changes of opinion. I do not claim any ownership of The Land Before Time or Homestuck.


I know well the Great Valley, for I have lived here for the entirety of the second era of my life. I know the shapes of the rocks that make up the Great Wall, the texture of the barks on every tree, the sounds the green food makes when it rustles in the wind, the tallness of the sheltering grass, the density of the sinking sand, the heat of the magma in the southeast cliffs. Everything is in my mind, clear and strong; I have a command of this place. I take in a deep breath through my nose-holes, smelling the crisp freshness of treestars and waterlilies, a smell that I remembered long before this most recent smelling. My eyes are open to a land that exists within me, and if anything were out of place I would know. Nothing is. In the years I have spent here every day has brought a new adventure, and I know today's adventure will come if I keep watch for it. Ever vigilante, never wavering. I learned to be this way when my mother died for me, taking up her way of living.

"…Three… Two… One!" We are playing hide and seek. "Ready or not…" We are playing because we are children. We are hiding because it has saved our lives to do so. "…here I come!" He is seeking because it is his turn for that role. The fact that he is a predatory species has no bearing on his place with us. His hunt is one of friendship, a playful gesture of defiance; defiance of nature. His is a defiance aided and opposed by two separate points of his destiny.

I must play this game. I watch behind myself to see the changes my steps have made to the grass and the dirt, to spot any pursuer, one in particular, should he smell me out. To his instincts, I imagine that I smell like an easy meal, young and flavorful; to his memories, a friend and, perhaps, even a father. I remember my way forward to the mouth of a cave, whilst still seeing the imprints of the recent past in my constant vigil. As I step inside I finally face forward; I have succeeded. I am quite certain Chomper will sooner find Spike than he will find me here. Though he, like me, knows this place well, the Great Valley remains to be great in size as well as sanction. This location will not come under scrutiny before many others. And so, my eyes scan the ground where I will rest, and in so doing I spot something new. This is something out of place with what I know, which can only mean one thing. Today's adventure will soon be starting.

There is a shiny rock buried partially in the dirt. I move my hoof to further uncover it, and I make contact with the object. Once this happens, I cannot continue to move or to be myself.

I am far too busy being someone else.

I am a troll, a creature with gray skin and orange horns. I am remembering myself so others can. The sky is gray with cloud cover which dulls the light reflecting from the two moons of my world. My feet pad nervously on the paved ground; I am not welcome here. I am not meant to be anything but a slave to most members of my society, for I bleed a dark, rust red. For this reason I am nervous; _my destiny is to die_. It is my birthright, to be less important, to be insignificant, to die young.

My place in the social order is determined by my place on the Hemospectrum as of now. If I find someone willing to waste their hate on me, I might have a chance. Love, the derivative of pity, should be easy enough to secure given how pathetic my very blood remains to be. If, by some miracle, I manage to fill my concupiscent quadrants before the collector drones come knocking, then I shall be indoctrinated into the Alternian Military, and I will have the opportunity to counter-balance my low blood with high skill. For that to work I would need the additional miracle of actually having high skill levels in some respects.

Alternians don't believe in miracles.  
I am an Alternian.  
Conclusion: fuck my wretched life.

And fuck it early. I am a child, as any troll that is neither serving in the military nor being dead is. Several of my betters and even a scattering of my peers are on the streets with me, but they are not looking my way. To look upon me is to see something worthless, pointless, revolting, for I am garbage. Like the garbage that I treed on, I am carelessly abused without thought of repercussion, and buffeted through life by the wills of others as though they were strong winds. I am told that I am to accept this, because it is right. There are a select few that would allow themselves to stoop to interacting with me, and these are the highest of the landwalking highbloods. According to their beliefs it is up to them to subjugglate all bloods below them with the malice of the most pure subjugation and the ease of the most talented jugglers. They do this in the name of the Mirthful Messiahs, mythical beings that do not exist, that cannot exist. No other blood believes in them, but the seadwellers allow their purple-blooded underlings to keep their deceitful church and thus, all lesser bloods are subject to its rulings. This means the highbloods will look to my form for the same reason others avoid doing so. They enjoy rolling in rusted garbage.

There is a group of them nearby, a threesome of the superior beings. Their lifespans are longer. They are much stronger. They are meant to have sharper minds. I do not see it. They smile at me like deranged animals, ready to rip and tear for pleasure and for no other reason. Senseless destruction is their forte. To my perception they are the most moronic imbeciles in existence, but to say as much would be treason. I must simply be wrong, and their way is lawfully right. This is why I cringe when I see them. I am trying to recoil from a reality that disagrees with me entirely.

They start their approach, readying their strife specibi. I leave my specibus untapped, my weapon stored in an abstraction that this universe maintains. There is no crime against fighting back against subjugglation; in fact, the highbloods would enjoy the coming torture all the more if I tried. However, there is a law against my winning. If I managed to kill even one of them, I will have stepped outside the boundaries of my caste in their eyes, and I will be culled immediately. Laws only exist on Alternia so far as they are enforced, and bloodshed is encouraged. If I could kill all three of them and any other highbloods that might get involved I would be in the clear, but that is highly unlikely. My best course of action is to let them do with me as they please.

The children of Alternia have unlimited access to various primitive weapons left on the planet's surface, while the true instruments of war are among the stars. Space faring vessels carry our people to glorious conquest, that we may spread the pain we inflict on each other to other species throughout reality. I will likely never see this conquest, but if I submit now there is at least a small chance. My soon to be tormenters use Jokerkind specibi, a specibus type that is not listed as, by the strictest definition, existing at all. They are unrestricted in the types of weapons they can wield. One carries a cleaver, drenched in dried splotches of blood from all bloods lower than the carrier's, while another, the female, holds a metal stick that may have been designed for use in some highblood-only ball game. The third is the worst of them; he is larger, more gleeful, armed with only his powerful fists. This one wants to feel my pain in the most pure way, he will strike first. His face is alight with an unfathomable grin, and it makes him hideous. They are all hideous.

In a strange moment of great lucidity I lift my arm into my own line of vision, obscuring their faces. With those devilish expressions removed, they appear to be just as physically perfect as they are supposed to be. I look down at myself to view that which I moments ago thought to be trash. I pretend with a simple application of imagination that the blood in my veins is on par with the three trolls in front of me, and the image becomes something angelic. We are all too on edge, too determined to be strong, too dead-set on being swift and lithe to be anything short of beautiful. I grope my own developing breasts with increased interest; it is as if I am seeing them for the first time. I should not be treated any differently than any other troll.

I am not garbage. None of us are.

I look up, realizing that my actions have confused the highbloods. They are staring at me like I've gone mad, and perhaps I have. I smile at them genuinely; I have no idea why. The largest sneers and throws his fist into my face before I can react. I feel the four knuckles pierce my skin and crack into my cheekbone, the force bending my neck back so quickly that I surely would have lost my head had I not been taking a step back in the same instant. I slip in a puddle of yellow perspiration that I somehow haven't noticed until now, landing on my back. They stand above me now, their angry faces slowly beginning to twist back into gleeful smiles because they have brought out some of my rust red blood. The female swings her stick at my leg, but I move to avoid the blow. When the metal meets the asphalt the resulting vibrations disorient her and she staggers backwards. I would have let that bone-crushing blow hit home, but I am not garbage anymore.

I pull my crossbow from my Bowkind specibus and aim the pre-loaded weapon at the one with the cleaver just as he dives for my other leg. His jugular is pierced by my first arrow and his implement falls into me with reduced force. I can feel it cut through the skin of my left shin and it scrapes against the bone there, but though it is unpleasant my bone remains intact. Just as I load another arrow the larger male grabs my right leg and throws me into the wall of the building to my right. The shoulder for my firing arm hits the chitinous alloy used by builder drones for all Alternian structures, but I shrug off the damage. I fire at the offender from my position on the ground, knowing I don't have time enough to aim or compose myself. I hope that my shot slows him down, and it indeed seems to as he falls to the ground with me. As I struggle to my feet the female recomposes herself and once again swings her sport-stick at me. I duck the swing and she is again disoriented, this time from hitting the wall behind me. I take an arrow and stab it up through her neck, spilling holy purple blood all over my face. I squint on reflex to avoid being blinded before pushing this defeated foe away from me.

I load my crossbow again as I scan the ground for the highblood that still lives, but I do not see him. It is now that I feel sharp metal dig into both of my shoulders, lifting me from the ground as my legs squirm in the air. My every breath is tainted by the smell and taste of blood that is my enemies' and my own. I begin to move my crossbow to fire at this offender, but a third piece of sharp metal stabs into it, reducing it to scrap. These are adhesive metal legs, the implements of an Irken utility backpack that the large highblood controls with his Jokerkind specibus. He is using it to stay on the wall and lift me to his mercy; I cannot see this, but I know it is true. It isn't because of deduction, as I am not given the time to riddle out that such must be happening. Rather, I know this place. It is as if some ethereal being has allowed me to borrow his strange, spacial sixth sense.

The trolls below us are either watching the scene complacently or ignoring it entirely. They do not care about me or him or the two dead. They are scum, unenlightened, foolish rats. Worse than rats. They are selfish, for they care for only themselves. If I were in their position, so would I be. The highblood takes my head in a vice grip as we both continue to bleed.

I was wrong most recently, and even in the distant past. It is true that I am garbage, but so is the highblood behind me, and so are the trolls before us, and the murderers in the stars. We are all garbage.

These are my last thoughts before the pressure of the highblood overwhelms me. He is laughing.

And I am screaming in my hiding spot. My toed forehooves grip my saurian head in memory of the highblood's hands. I lose track of time as my torment continues. The pain of death and metal will not leave me in peace. At least, it doesn't for some unknown period of time.

Once my wits begin to return I start to wonder irrelevantly how far away my friends must be to not have heard me. But my thoughts are interrupted. "I see you found a memory orb young Longneck." I know that voice; it is Mister Rainbowface, the one that breaks all the rules.

I turn toward him, and speak in a voice shakier than I intend to. "T-troll…"

"Ah… Alternian?" I nod my head slowly in response before speaking back.

"They are barbaric. Murderers! Criminals!"

"Hmm…" He taps his chin. "I think it's time I told you something about everyone, Littlefoot." I am confused by this, but wait for him to continue regardless. "The shaprteeth feed on the leafeaters; this is true. That makes sharpteeth killers. But, the leaves from plants are also part of life, as plants are as alive as any animal. Whenever you get sick, it is because lifeforms too small for you to see are trying to feed off you, killing you slowly. When you get better, it is because your immune system has killed the foreign life. I'm sure that a piece of a troll's memory has taught you that causing pain or death is a crime; thus, we are all criminals."

"We are all garbage…" I muse.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong young one, for what is crime but the denial of made-up laws and the perpetuation of the Circle of Life? All my lecture meant was this: we are all the same."

"Why did you share these thoughts with me?" I ask.

"Because I knew you would listen." It is a simple answer, one that I easily accept. Not that I have much choice, as he teleports back to his spacecraft in the next instant. I know this is what he is doing because of the Alternian knowledge that now rests in my think-pan.

I venture back out into the Valley, my Valley, and take in the lush sight. Though I know it well, I have never been so glad to see it again. I stroll through this place, taking in the familiar atmosphere, and awaiting the inevitable. Eventually I am sniffed out and my carnivorous friend catches up to me. He hesitates in tagging me when he sees that I am not trying to avoid him.

"What's the matter, Littlefoot?" I look to him with a smile, studying him. He has grown skinnier everyday. Grubs and bugs cannot feed him forever.

"Nothing is the matter Chomper." I contemplate saying something I haven't said to him in years. Then I do say it, lifting my leg in front of him. "You look hungry. Want a bite?" Besides, the troll taught me how to endure pain.

To live is to kill and

My destiny is to die.

Whatever happens before that destiny is fulfilled

Is entirely up to me.


End file.
